i can feel your heart
by coffee-stained lips
Summary: Clove does not love Cato. / Cato&Clove. Oneshot.


**a/n: so i really enjoyed writing this. i really wanted to explore their relationship, because clato = asdfghjkl perfection. i don't feel too fond of the ending, but there's really no other way to end a clato fic, is there? CURSE YOU, SUZANNE COLLINS.**

They meet eyes for the first time across the training room. The instructor's at the front of the class talking about choice weaponry, but Clove is much too invested in her knife. Hidden not-so-discreetly under her desk, she strokes the blade with a gentle finger, twisting it back and forth so the polished silver catches the light and almost sparkles. No one dares scold her; her aim is perfect and she has no restraint.

She feels him staring before she sees him. With her thumb on the sharp tip of her knife, she braves a glance. He flashes her a smug smirk, and she finds herself grinning harshly and fully back at him, her tongue grazing her incisors like a wolf before it pounces. She does not smile because she likes him; she smiles to show she is not weak. Other girls would blush or giggle or look away in fear. Clove is not an ordinary girl. She takes no pride in beauty or in romance. It is the hunt and more importantly the kill that she relishes.

She sees him chortle under his breath and turn back to look at the instructor, but she knows his thoughts are on her, and she lets her smile widen as she drags her thumb over the blade.

.

People take her size for granted most of the time. She's small and slight, and her face holds the roundness of a twelve-year-old. Despite her healthy diet and rigorous exercise, she's as skinny as a District 12 tribute and nobody takes her seriously. That is, until she gets a knife.

It doesn't take her too long to master the art. She learns how to throw, stab, slice, learns the different techniques and the best places to aim for. She studies the different types of knives, serrated, smooth, kitchen, steak, et cetera, and uses them to her advantage.

She's practicing with one in class one day, while the instructor tries to help a hopeless thirteen-year-old with her snares. She catches that boy watching her again as he leans against the wall and crosses his brawny arms. She feels an urge to show off her skills, but she knows arrogance is key to weakness.

"Nice toy." he comments snarkily, and she almost drops her knife. She tries to calm herself, but she can feel her temper taking hold. It's her biggest weakness, the only one she can't control.

"Fuck off." she spits, and hurls her knife across the room where it wedges in the heart of a stuffed dummy. There's no satisfaction that comes from the clean injection into its chest, not without the slick burst of blood.

"Sensitive, much?" he remarks with too much malice as she stalks over to yank the knife angrily out of the dummy's fabric flesh. "You wouldn't last five minutes in the—"

The knife is in his arm before he can finish.

"I'd kill you before you stepped off your damn platform," she hisses as he collapses, his rusty, red-almost-black blood spilling over the dark floor like a waterfall. "You don't know what I'm fucking capable of." She withdraws the knife from his skin sharply, drops of his blood splattering onto her shirt and trailing down her fingers. He refuses to put pressure on the wound, instead wincing as he tries to brave it, but she can see in his eyes a wild hatred and temper as vicious as her own.

The instructor says nothing to her but "nice technique" as he hoists the boy up and tells him to "shake it off, Cato."

_Cato_, she thinks as she licks his blood off her bony fingers.

.

She decides to really, really hate him. Everyone adores him, because he's everything a District 2 tribute should be: handsome, tall, athletic, proud. He's like a movie star in the way he moves and the way he talks, and he's got a tongue as sharp as one of her knives (and she won't admit it, but he's got eyes that glitter and hair that bleaches in the sunlight, and it gives her these fluttery feelings in her stomach that makes her hate herself.)

And no one will pay attention to her, even though she's ruthless and bloodthirsty and could win the Hunger Games with one hand behind her back because she's not pretty enough for the camera, not like Cato is. She can't swallow her opinions and fake happiness – she can't be charismatic, can't pretend to like people or give out compliments to people because she quite frankly thinks everybody other than her is a _fucking moron_, and she refuses to change herself for anyone.

(Which is probably why she spends her free time sharpening her knives in her dreary black bedroom, watching other girls her age from the window walking and talking and living.

But she doesn't care, she likes being alone. It's easier than the alternative.)

.

The first time she talks to him – and she means _really_ talk to him, not respond to his taunts with a swear word to his ears and a knife to his arm – she's sitting on the doorstep of her house, playing with one of her knives because her grandmother couldn't stand her being cooped up in her bedroom with all her friends outside (she should really know better, honestly). She notices him approach, senses the shuffle of his feet against the gravel, but she refuses to look at him because she can't stand to see his (_movie star_) face.

"Fancy seeing you out and about." he teases, and she stares with burning hatred at his expensive sneakers. "Thought you melted in natural sunlight." He gives a laugh, but it's halfhearted when she doesn't react. She knows that's his goal, to provoke her, make her stand and look at him, so she tries to control her temper because _she will not give in to him_.

"Hey," he says, and suddenly his voice is just a little softer, a little kinder, and it shocks Clove. "Hey, c'mon, shrimp, what's the deal?" It's only when the nickname hits her that she jumps up, fury in her features and gripping her knife like a lifeline.

"Don't fucking call me that," she growls, poised to strike, "I'll carve your intestines out and choke you with them if you call me that."

His eyes widen slightly, but then he grins, and even more surprisingly, takes her hand in his, his fingers fitting between hers so comfortably it scares her.

"Come on, shorty." he says, and she growls menacingly, but doesn't do much more than that.

.

He leads her halfway across the district, into a house that's too big with too many people and too much smoke and not enough oxygen. She can barely make out faces, just the fact that there's a lot of them and she probably hates each and every person they belong to.

She figures she should've expected Cato to be a part of this kind of crowd, the kind that gets drunk and high at any available moment because they're all just going to die anyway, right?

He takes her to a little corner where a few of them are lounging, cigarettes dangling out of their mouths and white dust covering the carpet and their nostrils, and they're all grinning like idiots and swaying like they're in some sort of dreamland. Of course Clove's first instinct is to get out of there (well, actually that's her second; her first is to slit their throats for looking so happy when she's so miserable), but Cato lights up a joint and asks to share it with her, and she lets him, because she wants to have that kind of oblivious happiness that all these kids are having.

And soon she's giggling like some sort of manic schoolgirl, and her brain is blurry and everyone's voices fade into one cacophony of curse words and meaningless ramblings nobody will remember once they come to their senses. She forgets the concept of time when she's lost in this stupor, and it feels like it's only been three minutes but the stars are already gleaming in the sky and her grandmother is going to go out of her mind wondering where she is – but you know, fuck her grandma. Fuck everything, fuck these people, fuck the Capitol, fuck the Games, fuck Cato.

The last one she follows through on, as she stumblingly drags him with her up to the rooftop, where the cold metal rubs against her back and her teeth press hard against his pulsating neck, resisting the temptation to bite down and draw blood. The experience is new and frightening, but she won't admit that because she's Clove and she fears nothing, so she just lets his smell rub off on her and lets his breath tickle her ear and oh god oh god oh god where are his hands going, what's he whispering, _what's happening_.

It ends eventually, and she's breathing hard and fast, and he's holding her in ways she swore she'd never be held, but his embrace is warm and welcoming in the chilly air of night. He holds her like she's fragile, something constructed of sparkling glass, and she hates that, hates him, but she's too tired to pull away.

"You're fucking beautiful." he whispers, pressing his thumb to each of her freckles and wishing on them like they're stars.

It makes her shudder, because she's never once been called anything of the sort, and it's _Cato_ saying these things to her – but she hates it, hates him for it, because she's more than a throwaway pretty face. She is fearless, bloodthirsty, brutal, and she will not resort to being just another girl.

(Still, it's nice. Fuck it, it's _wonderful_.)

"Shut the hell up." she replies, but she cannot hide the tremors in her voice and she feels his grip tighten. She never wants him to let go, and that is why she begins to hate herself.

.

Clove does not love Cato.

She does not love the way his muscles ripple from under his shirt. She does not love the way he can so agilely move through the training course, slicing and jabbing effortlessly with a sword. She does not love the way he cheers her on when she goes through it and smiles when she succeeds.

She does not love how easily their bodies slide together, like perfect puzzle pieces. She does not love how his hair shines with sweat, golden and wet and lush. She does not love how his fingers trace his name on her hipbone and how he murmurs silky promises into her ear and how she doesn't feel so lonely when he's with her.

Clove does not love Cato. She doesn't, and she can't. So she won't.

.

They talk, sometimes, about the future. He'll be eighteen in a few months, and the Reaping will come soon after that. If his name isn't somehow pulled, he'll volunteer. Simple as that.

"A part of me…" he starts, and she can't see him in the dim light of the moon, but she knows he's not smiling. "A part of me wishes I didn't have to do it. That I could just let one more year slip by, and then not have to worry."

She doesn't say anything, because they _live_ for the Games – they were born for it, bred for it. It is their reason for being in this twisted world, and it's really all she knows so she doesn't know how to agree or if she wants to.

They lie there for a moment or two, quiet and thinking, before she manages: "District Seven might be nice."

And it's the stupidest fucking thing that's ever flown out of her mouth, but she hears him chuckle and his hand finds hers beneath the sheets.

"Too many trees." he says.

"I like trees." she replies. "Good for hiding. Lots of animals too – I could practice my aim."

They both laugh at that, but their laughs are sour and she curls into his side once they subside, afraid, so suddenly afraid.

She closes her eyes, and dreams of her and him and District 7 and what a happily ever after might feel like.

.

The Reaping comes, and so of course they all pretty themselves up, with more makeup than usual and the nicest, most expensive clothes in case they're caught on camera.

She wears a silky white dress with a blood-red bow around her waist, and it shimmers too brightly in the afternoon sun and this style is so not her – too much foundation and mascara on, her hair all up in a bun, her skin all clean and shit.

She's nothing compared to Cato as he strides out in a crisp white shirt and maroon tie to match her bow. He was born ready for this, wasn't he, and she tries not to stare at the way his biceps pop out of the sleeves.

He approaches her, and he kisses her, but it's too tender, too gentle, so unlike all of their other kisses. It scares her a little because he's kissing her and touching her like it's the last time he ever will, his hands savoring every bump and every scar, every out-of-place hair and every mud-brown freckle.

She pushes him off her, but without any real force; he knows to move away on his own. "Get the fuck off me" is what she says, but he sighs because he hears _I don't want to lose you_.

They join hands and walk with each other to the square, with Clove's grandmother trailing behind and generally ruining the "moment" with her half-assed ramblings that end mid-sentence. Cato flashes her a wink that makes her feel just a smidge better as they separate, but suddenly her hand feels so cold and her fingers so lifeless.

She doesn't really pay much attention, even as the escort's hand goes into the first bowl. She could repeat the entire routine word-for-word like a good little girl, if she wanted to. Nothing ever changes, every year it's all the same –

Until her name's booming across the square in a peppy, irritating voice, and suddenly she feels the air rush out of her and watches as the girls part like the Red Sea, almost relieved to get rid of the insane knife-wielder.

She stalks up to the stand, smirking, because even though she's only fifteen, there's nobody better to go into the Games and they know it. It's just when Cato's hand shoots into the air, when he rushes through the crowd like tracker jackers are chasing him, that she feels her heart plummet to the pit of her stomach because now for certain that goodbye is definite, and she doesn't want to think about losing him and loving him and all this other shit she's never known before.

As they're escorted off the stage, she feels his fingers along the palm of her hand and she only hesitates a second before swatting them away.

.

They do it in his bedroom their first night in the Capitol, only this time the bed springs don't creak and there's wine on the table beside them and it's like a surreal sort of dream that Clove doesn't want to wake up from. Cato rubs his fingers along her sides heatedly, like it was meant to be, and she giggles maniacally as he goes straight for her neck, passionate and furious in a sudden white-hot bursts of sparks.

"If you've gotta do it," he breathes after the second time, lying on one side as he watches her light a cigarette, "do it in style."

"Damn right." she laughs, sucking the smoke in and blowing it out in a rhythmic pattern.

And then there's this almost uncomfortable silence that follows, with only the sound of their breathing to break it, and she's itching to get rid of it, but she's never been one with words.

She puts the cigarette out in the ashtray next to her, and when she turns back he's suddenly _way_ too close, his eyes boring into her like he needs to soak up her whole being or else he'll have nothing.

"You _have_ to kill me." he whispers, his hand gripping hers in the tightest of holds. "It's gonna come down to us, and you're going to kill me."

She doesn't know how to respond, other than with yes, because she thinks if he has to die, the least she can do is make it a good death to watch.

He breathes a sigh of relief. "Clove, I—"

"No." And it's the harshest word he's ever heard, and she can see it in his face as it falls before he grits his teeth and comes at her again, and she lets him because she'll never be an eloquent speaker, but she sure as hell can speak stanzas with her body.

.

She's in no way jealous of that District 1 girl – what was it again? Shimmer? Glitter? Fuck it, it doesn't matter. She'll be dead (not) soon enough.

The girl's pretty, in that vivacious, voluptuous schoolgirl way. Her hair glimmers (oh, yeah, that's it – dumbass name), all blonde like a goddess's, and her eyes are bright and blue and her lips are full and pink and Cato's looking at her like he wants to eat her with his tongue, and Clove _doesn't care._ She doesn't care how Cato's eye-fucking her and staring at her ass, no, not at all.

Except she's throwing her knives harder and snarls with every toss, and they all go into the dummies' hearts perfectly, but that doesn't mean anything.

"I know what you're thinking," she growls at him as he brushes past her to get to the sword station. "Don't do it."

He laughs condescendingly, which is really the only way he laughs. "What?"

"You so much as touch that bitch and I'll cut your tongue out." she says coolly, lobbing two knives down the way at once – they hit the dummy spot-on, one in the head and one in the chest.

"Jealous?" And suddenly she feels his hand touching her back and her skin is crawling and these feelings are going to eat her from the inside out.

"Fuck you." she responds, because she doesn't care and she's not jealous and she's not trying to keep from crying because she'll be driving a knife into his heart in a matter of weeks.

.

She watches his biceps pop out of his shirt and his tongue dart in and out of his mouth, and all she wants to do is have him hold her like she hates and kiss her like she loves and have them just run away, far, far away.

"This is it." he whispers, "You ready?"

She is but she's not because she's been preparing for this her entire life and she knows every strategy and every tactic, but he's staring at her with those fucking ocean-blue eyes and his tongue is tempting and she doesn't want to kill him. She just wants to be with him, forever, and that's so cheesy and she hates herself, and _fuck what's happening to her_.

She grabs his jaw in her hands and kisses him, standing on her tiptoes and falling into his arms. His fingers run over her back, sliding over each knob of her spine, counting them one by one. He tastes like blood and chocolate. She loves the taste of both.

"Clove," he moans, "I love you."

"No." she growls, digging her nails into his chin, determined to leave a mark, determined not to shed a tear. "I refuse to play the star-crossed lovers bit."

And then there's the knock at the door, and they break apart like children caught searching for Christmas presents, because the Capitol guards are here to take them away to their respective rooms for the countdown to begin.

She doesn't even look at him as she follows them down the hall; it'll hurt too much.

.

Cato's hair, Cato's eyes, Cato's smile, Cato's laugh, Cato Cato Cato.

She thinks of the smoky air and the alcohol breath and the scar she left behind and everything about him before the blood covers it all.

**a/n: thank you so much for reading! reviews and feedback would be appreciated :)**


End file.
